‘Very well indeed, Your Grace. You find me on my way to the flower garden. Would you care to accompany me and protect me from Old Johnson, who refuses to believe any of his blooms are for cutting?’
‘Did I recognise that London clerk visiting again?’
Antonia hid a smile at his apparently casual probing. It seemed Mr Blake piqued Marcus’s interest, which could only be flattering to herself. ‘Yes, it was Mr Blake. I see no reason why I cannot tell you now that his principal, Sir Josiah Finch, has decided to take Rye End Hall. I expect Sir Josiah and Lady Finch, who is Mr Blake’s aunt, by the by, will be in residence here within the fortnight.’
‘l congratulate you.’ Marcus pushed open the wicket gate into the garden and held it for Antonia to pass through. ‘You appear to have scored a veritable triumph with your tenant. A notable nabob, I believe.’
Antonia scanned his face, looking for signs of sarcasm, but saw only genuine admiration for her business acuity.
‘You know Sir Josiah?’
‘No, but I have heard of him. I believe he has been back in this country from the Indies for almost a year and the on dit is that he has amassed a great fortune in his years in the East. He and Lady Finch do not go much into Society, although she, of course, is widely connected with some of the best families. He, I believe, is a self-made man.’
‘And none the worse for that,’ Antonia interjected.
‘I had intended no slur on your nabob. I am sure he is a most excellent man and will adorn our local society.’
Antonia was surprised. She had expected Sir Josiah’s origins in trade, however exalted, would be despised by an aristocrat, especially a duke. Her own father would certainly have looked down on him.
‘You do me an injustice,’ Marcus said evenly, ‘if you believe I would condemn the man for such a reason. If he proves a bad landlord, I may revise my opinion.’
Antonia suspected there was a veiled hint about her ‘poachers’ in that last remark but, warmed by her success and the admiration of Mr Blake, she chose to ignore it. Best, perhaps, not to provoke an argument.
Old Johnson greeted them with a look of deep suspicion and a grunt. When Antonia asked him for a basket he produced one with bad grace. ‘And some scissors, please, Johnson,’ she requested firmly, know
ing how the old man hated her to pick his flowers.
‘Ain’t got none,’ he muttered, but was foiled by Marcus producing a pocket knife.
Marcus held the basket while Antonia cut her selected blooms, wandering up and down the paths under the old man’s hostile eye. ‘He appears to have taken a great dislike to me, as well as to your flower picking,’ Marcus observed.
‘Small wonder,’ Antonia responded crisply. ‘You are the cause of his son’s present condition.’
‘I am? And what condition might that be?’
‘He is languishing in Hertford gaol doing hard labour, sent there by you for poaching, and meanwhile his old father must support his family.’
‘l remember him now, and I doubt his father is supporting his family, which consists of numerous by-blows scattered from here to Berkhamsted. The son is a ne’er-do-well who has never done an honest day’s work in his life and who crowned a career of poaching, thievery and wenching by clubbing a keeper so savagely the man lost the sight of one eye. No, ma’am, save your sympathy for those who better deserve it.’
Antonia shivered at the chill in his voice and in his eyes. ‘l am sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I should not have spoken without knowing the full facts. Was the injured man one of your keepers?’
‘Yes,’ Marcus replied shortly, then seeing her stricken face, relented and explained. ‘He is the younger brother of Sparrow, my head keeper. He works in the stables now, for his sight is quite poor at night.’
Antonia remembered Sparrow’s rough grasp. ‘No wonder Sparrow is so hard on poachers.’
‘It is as well to remember that not every picture is painted in black and white.’
She stooped to snip off some greenery, averting her face from his. ‘I am reproved. Sometimes I become so passionately engaged that I fail to see the shades of grey.’
Marcus put one hand under her elbow to help her upright. Even through her gown and the leather of his glove she could feel the warmth of him. ‘I would not wish to see you any less passionate about anything, Antonia,’ he murmured.
She could not meet his eye. She glanced away in confusion, to encounter instead the rheumy regard of the old gardener. This was no place to engage in whatever was occurring between her and Marcus. Was he flirting with her, or merely teasing her? She could hardly tell, and her growing partiality for him was clouding her own judgement.
‘I have filled my basket as full as I dare,’ Antonia said lightly, with a nod to Johnson as she led the way out of the garden. ‘Donna will be wondering what has become of me – these are for her to fill the vases in the hall.’
Marcus took the basket from her aa they strolled back towards the house in companionable silence. At the front door he handed her the flowers. ‘I had almost forgotten the purpose of my call. I am assembling a house party at Brightshill next week. I believe I mentioned it before, if you recall. I hope you and Miss Donaldson will do me the honour of joining us for dinner on Tuesday evening.’
‘I would be delighted, as, I am sure, will be Miss Donaldson.’ Antonia spoke calmly but inside her heart had leapt at the thought of mixing in society again after so many months. And to see Marcus in his own setting, to see Brightshill in all its glory, filled with people…